The Murder Book

by Lissa Marie Redmond

Her smile faded as the reality of the situation hit her. “You know the cop that stole the Murder Book is going to try again to get the file he was after.”

  Reese nodded in agreement. “He wanted it bad enough to kill for it.”

  “Joy and Ben are running down phone numbers. They should be scooping Daley up right now. Once that file leaves the room, the homicide might as well never have happened.” The sick feeling in her gut had returned. It was only a matter of time before the motivated cop took another shot at getting into that file room.

  Reese drummed his fingers on top of the steering wheel, one of his nervous habits when he had pent-up energy to spend. “You want to go knock on Charlie Daley’s door? Like right now?”

  “We’re going the wrong way,” Lauren pointed out.

  He made a U-turn in the middle of Delaware Avenue, causing cars in both directions to screech to a stop, colorful language coming at them from the other drivers. “Now we’re not.” He grinned and headed for the Skyway.

  19

  The cemetery was just past Our Lady of Victory Basilica on Ridge Road in the city of Lackawanna. Buffalo’s southernmost neighbor in Erie county, Lackawanna was famous for two things: the Bethlehem Steel plant and Father Nelson Henry Baker. The steel plant, a once giant complex of churning molten ore and spewing smoke stacks that employed 35,000 people in its heyday, was now an abandoned husk on the waterfront. The closing of the steel plant devastated not only Lackawanna but the entire western New York region for decades. Boarded-up buildings and shut-down taverns lined the same streets that were once thriving, put down with the irreplaceable loss of the steel workers and their paychecks.

  In the middle of Lackawanna, close to its city hall, sat its other famous landmark: Father Baker’s Our Lady of Victory Basilica. A shining white marble and stone masterpiece, it looked out of place in the post-industrial landscape. A humble priest and a Civil War veteran who saw action at Gettysburg, Father Baker built his monument to the Blessed Mother, along with an infant home, a hospital, a school, and an orphanage, with little more than his faith. Charlie Daley’s cemetery was located just down the road from the Basilica.

  “Have you ever been inside?” Lauren asked as they approached the huge church.

  “Took a field trip there once when I was in grade school. The only thing I remember is a bedroom they had roped off that the guide said was Father Baker’s. I remember wondering why they would rope off someone’s bedroom. It seemed very strange to me at the time.”

  “Father Baker is close to becoming a saint,” Lauren told him, looking up at the angel statues that flanked the entrance. Legend had it, the angels would rise up and fly to heaven on the last day. As a little girl riding in her parents’ car, she’d always look up to make sure the statues were still there.

  They got caught at the light directly in front of the Basilica. A group of tourists came marching up the sidewalk, trouping after a guide energetically waving an umbrella over his head. They looked both ways, crossed, and followed their leader to the impressive white steps, where he halted, continuing his history speech before they would move on.

  “How does that work?” The light was taking forever. Another tour group exited a bus parked farther up the street. She wondered if the church controlled this particular stoplight so it could cater to all the visitors. The holiday season was particularly busy, she knew, as everyone wanted to see the church decked out in its Christmas glory.

  “He needs his miracles to be recognized by the Vatican. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Do you believe in that stuff?” Reese asked.

  “Look around you. He built all this from nothing; the church, the hospital, saved hundreds of kids in his infant home and orphanage. The fact that all this survived after the Bethlehem Steel plant closed …” She gestured toward the school and hospital, which had become a long-term care facility. “That has to be some kind of miracle in itself.”

  The light turned, and they made their way toward the cemetery.

  “My cousin got married there because it was her husband’s parish.” Lauren gave a laugh. “Talk about a lavish wedding.”

  “Not like yours, huh?” Reese asked.

  “My first wedding lasted three minutes at the clerk’s office in City Hall. My mom cried the entire time. My second wedding was on the back steps of the Albright-Knox Art Gallery with a reception at the Buffalo Club and a honeymoon in Paris. The whole thing cost more than my house.”

  “The first time for love, the second time for money,” Reese joked, pulling to a stop behind a school bus. Kids streamed off as a tired-looking bus aid shepherded them across the road, so unlike the dynamic tour guide.

  “In my case, it was the first time I was knocked up, second time he loved his money more than me.”

  “You think Mark Hathaway didn’t love you? Or that he still doesn’t? I hear the messages on your landline when you play them at night.” Reese gave her the side eye. She had to remember to lower the volume now that she had a houseguest.

  The bus retracted its flashing stop sign and they started forward again. “He loves himself more than anything. And he hates to lose.”

  “Is this it?” Reese nodded toward a pair of rusty gates that opened into a garden of gravestones. Just inside the gates, to their immediate left, was a modest two-story wood house with a small porch. The sign hanging from a post out front declared it was the OFFICE. Reese turned in toward the house, parking half on the road, half on the grass. There were no parking spaces. Both the cemetery and house had been built long before cars were invented.

  In the house’s front window, dividing the white lace curtains in two, was a hand-printed sign that read: Open.

  Gravestones lined the road and the front lawn of the house, almost as if the dwelling had been an afterthought, plunked down in the cemetery after it was full. Maybe it had been. This close to Ridge Road would be the oldest part of the cemetery. Some of the tombstones were unreadable, the engraving washed away by weather and time. The few Lauren could make out as she picked her way through to the front door were mostly Polish names: Baranski, Stanieschewski, Pliscka. She carefully stepped around a tilting monument to Helen Matucheviez, born 1862, died in 1888. Wondering if anyone ever came to visit Helen anymore, if anyone even knew Helen was here, Lauren walked up the sagging wooden steps and waited for Reese to join her.

  He had taken the long way, careful not to step on any of the graves, no matter how close they were. “Did I ever tell you I hate cemeteries?” he said when he finally managed to maneuver onto the porch.

  “I’m well aware of your phobia.”

  “It’s not a phobia.” He looked around the vast graveyard that stretched in front of them. “It’s just creepy as hell.”

  “Try to be brave.” She rang the doorbell, which bonged in a gentle singsong way. Very soothing for the bereaved.

  They heard the office manager’s approach, probably from the moment she stood up from her desk. This whole house must creak, Lauren thought as footsteps and sound of groaning wood got closer. I would have thought “like my grandmother’s knees,” but now like mine.

  “Creepy,” Reese whispered as the door opened.

  The manager was a very pleasant-looking, matronly woman of about sixty. She wore a tasteful pastel pink dress with a floral scarf knotted around her neck. Her frosted blond hair was pinned up and sprayed, as though she had just come from the hairdresser’s that morning. “Hello,” she said, holding the door wide. “Are you interested in buying a plot?”

  No need to beat around the bush. “Actually, we were hoping to see Charles Daley,” Lauren said. “Is he here, by any chance?”

  “You’re friends of Charlie? Come in, come in. I’ll call him. He’s out doing some maintenance. You can have a seat in the living room, if you like.” She gestured to an area remodeled to look like your grandmother’s front sitting room, complete with Tif
fany-style shaded lamps and embroidered throw pillows on the brocade settee.

  The owners of the cemetery must have spent a fortune on renovating the interior of the old house while leaving the outside to blend with the grounds, Lauren thought, looking around. Business must be booming. Lauren and Reese sat themselves side by side on the sofa, a little squished despite Lauren’s small frame. Reese inched his butt to the edge to give her more room.

  “Who should I say is stopping by?”

  “Tell him Lauren Riley.” Her hand wrapped itself around her wound again as she stifled a cough. Her voice was still scratchy and raw, like she was getting over a bad cold. She had blown off physical therapy again. The department would never let her come back if she kept that up.

  “Perfect.” The lady clasped her hands together in front of her. “Can I get either of you any tea, coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” they said in unison.

  Watching the sweet lady’s face pinch up, Lauren knew what was coming next. “Do I know you, dear? You look so familiar to me.”

  “I don’t think so,” she deflected with as pleasant a smile as she could muster. “I get that sometimes. I think I have one of those faces.”

  “Maybe,” she conceded, still studying her face. “My name is Nell, and if you need anything, I’m right through there.” She pointed to a pair of pocket doors adorned with another office sign. “I’ll get Charlie on the radio right away.”

  The polished hardwood floor groaned her entire way to the office. You can dress up an old house, but it’s still an old house, Lauren thought as Nell slid the pocket doors closed behind her.

  “I hate cemeteries,” Reese whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Did I ever tell you I hate cemeteries?”

  “It’s come up once or twice.” Cemeteries were great places to meet with informants. Very little chance of running into someone the snitch would know at midnight in the middle of a graveyard. But Reese always white-knuckled it through those meetings. He had told Lauren as a kid his friends had dared him to go into a graveyard by his house and steal a flower from a certain grave they said was haunted. When he got to the grave, an old man in a ratty trench coat with no teeth was standing there putting carnations on the ground. He saw Reese and yelled something unintelligible at him. He ran back to his friends, tripped over a headstone, and broke his wrist. Adding insult to injury, everyone had heard the old man yelling and were gone, leaving him to walk home in the dark alone, cradling his broken wrist to his chest.

  “I think they’re peaceful.” Lauren gazed out the picture window to the rows of stone memorials, some decorated with flowers, other with small American flags stuck in the ground next to them.

  “When I bite it, I want someone to scatter my ashes someplace cool, like Iceland.”

  “You’ve never been to Iceland,” Lauren pointed out.

  “If you scatter my ashes there, I will be. And it will be even cooler.”

  “I’ll be sure to inform the future Mrs. Shane Reese of your last wishes. You do realize that Iceland has a crapload of active volcanos?”

  “Thank you for the warning, partner. But no cemeteries. If that happens, I will definitely be coming back to haunt you.”

  She was just about to tell him he already haunted her when the rumble of a loud engine filled the air. They both turned to the picture window to see what was coming.

  Motoring down the road was a gas-powered Cushman utility vehicle. It was overloaded with landscaping tools: a shovel, a rake, a wide broom with leaves caught in the bristles, all sticking up from the back. Stuffed in front of the steering wheel was a mountain of a man. All six-feet three, two-hundred and ninety pounds of Charlie Daley overflowed the front seat.

  Lauren watched as he lumbered out of the cart, brushing off the front of his coveralls, and made his way through the plots to the front steps. Flinging open the front door, Charlie had to work his way through the narrow frame. “Lauren Riley,” his voice was as loud and booming as the golf cart, “come over here, girl, and let me hug you.”

  Lauren had barely risen from the couch when he swept her up into a bear hug. “Easy,” she laughed. “I’m not completely healed.”

  He put her down and held her at arm’s length, his mop of white hair falling over his forehead into his eyes. “I saw you on the news. They said someone tried to kill you.”

  She nodded, his giant hands still holding her by the shoulders. “That’s why we’re here. I need your help, Charlie.”

  “And who might you be?” he asked, stepping back to look at Reese. “I’m Charlie Daley.” He stuck his huge hand out and engulfed Reese’s. “Lauren has always been rude like that, not introducing people.”

  “I’m Lauren’s partner, Shane Reese. Nice to meet you.”

  “Come upstairs to my apartment and we can talk.” Letting go of Reese’s hand, he motioned to a narrow staircase off to the right of the office and walked past them. Riley and Reese followed the big man. It seemed impossible that a person his size could squeeze through such a tiny opening, but Charlie stooped and bent his way up the stairs to his door. Pulling an enormous key ring from his back pocket, he selected an old-fashioned black key and turned it in the lock. Bowing again, he ducked his way inside, holding the door for Riley and Reese to enter. “This house wasn’t built for gentlemen of my size,” he said. “It’s a bit of a tight squeeze.”

  The renovations to the house hadn’t exactly reached the upstairs apartment. While it wasn’t 1800s décor, it was definitely 1970s, complete with a scuffed linoleum floor and a Formica kitchen table. “Sit. I’d say you look great, but you know I’d be lying. So I’ll put the coffee on instead. Still take it black?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  The apartment was freezing cold. Lauren noticed the kitchen window was opened a crack, sucking the corner of a yellow curtain out with the breeze. She knew Charlie was the type that never felt a chill. He used to walk around on the coldest winter days without a jacket, mocking her because she was bundled up like she lived in Antarctica. Half smiling at the memory, she wrapped her arms around her herself to keep warm and said nothing.

  “How about you?” he asked Reese. “You look like a double cream and sugar guy to me.”

  Reese cracked a smile. “I like sugar on top of my sugar.”

  Charlie laughed. “Good man. Just like me. Have a seat, both of you.”

  Riley and Reese took a spot on either side of the table, facing each other. Even the chairs were dated, bent metal frames with cracked, red plastic seats. At the head of the table was a wide, sturdy wooden chair. That one must be Charlie’s, Lauren thought. The ones we’re sitting on would crumple like paper flowers under his weight.

  “I can’t believe you work in a graveyard,” Lauren said as she watched him carefully measure out the coffee.

  “This is the best job I’ve ever had,” he told her, pouring water into the machine. “I make my own hours. The work is mindless. The residents don’t complain.” He turned back with a grin. “And the shit I see and hear? It’s better than the police department. Women confessing to cheating on their husbands over their graves. Couples coming to make whoopie in the middle of the night. Brothers fist-fighting over who gets dad’s cheap-ass watch. I tell you, it’s the greatest show on earth.”

  “Do you dig the graves?” Reese asked, looking a little green at the thought of it.

  “Naw. They sub-contract that out to a construction firm with a little backhoe. Used to be the maintenance men did, but that was a long time ago. Sometimes I neaten up the plots when they’re done. Clean up the mess. I got it down to a science, so it’s no bother.”

  Charlie opened his refrigerator, pulled out a carton of creamer, and set it in the middle of the table next to a sugar bowl with a spoon sticking out of it. “I’m going to stay until it’s my turn to be planted here.”

  He dug around his cabinet, hooking th
ree mugs with his pinky, and sat down in his chair. “My coffee machine takes a while, but man, does it make good java. Here.” He passed the mismatched mugs to Riley and Reese. His looked like a child’s teacup in his big paw.

  “Thanks,” Lauren turned the empty mug over and over in her hands. It was time to get down to business. “You know I got attacked. The reason we’re here is we think you might be able to help.”

  “Me? I haven’t been back to that filthy police building in fifteen years. How could I help?”

  Riley explained the mystery messages to Charlie, who nodded along as he reached back without getting up, grabbed the coffeepot, and poured them all a cup. Setting the pot directly on the already-burned Formica table, he asked, “You got the tape?”

  Tape, Lauren marveled. There hasn’t been actual tape in years. “Reese copied it onto his cell phone. Listen to this and tell me if you recognize the voice.”

  Reese pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket, opened the recorder app, turned the volume all the way up, then hit Play. Charlie bent forward, elbows on the table, forehead creased in worry lines as he listened to the recording.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, half to himself as he took a sip of coffee.

  The last message hadn’t even played yet. “Do you know the voice?” Reese asked.

  Charlie nodded. “That’s Peaches, all right. One of my best informants. I’m telling you, I dealt with that woman for three years until I had to cut her off. She started taking buy money, going into dope houses, getting the shit and coming out and telling me they were charging her twice as much. She didn’t leave me a choice.”

  “You’re sure?” Lauren asked, but the look on his face was confirmation enough.

  Leaning back in his chair, which groaned in protest, he told them more: “She called me ten times a day, every day, for three years straight. It may have been years ago, but I can still hear that woman’s voice in my sleep. They said she cried when she found out I retired. Hell, I’m the one that gave her the nickname Peaches. I gave all my informants fake names. That way I could call them and they could call me without using their real ones.”